


You're in a car with a beautiful boy

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Clubbing, Dancing, Drinking, Feuilly has a crush on Brigitte Bardot, Incoherent I'm sorry, Love Confessions, M/M, Richard Siken Quotes, Sad, drunken rambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:00:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You want to slide your hand underneath the waistband of his jeans. You want to curse and scream his name, you want to show him. Recite the poem that hasn’t yet been written, breathe the words that haven’t yet penetrated you, you don’t know it yourself but you need to show him.</p><p>In the alley outside the bar.</p><p>Wall. Against a wall.</p><p>In his skin. <em>On</em> his skin. You need to press your lips against the hollow of his throat and speak to it, say what the air can’t handle to hear. You need his skin to muffle your words because even you aren't ready to hear them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're in a car with a beautiful boy

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I know this is extremely cliche but I would DIE if I didn't write it, because Richard Siken is one of my favorite poets and his pieces make me feel things I can't even begin to express. I adore the images he creates and Crush is such an excellent work! The fragment R and Enjolras recite is from his poem 'You are Jeff'.
> 
> The song they're all dancing is 'One day baby we'll be old' by Asaf Avidan. Please please listen to it while reading please and thank you!

**e.**

Grantaire is drunk.

That’s a new one. Oh yes, that’s a new one. You have seen him drunk, Grantaire is in a constant state of drunkenness, he was born drunk and he will fuckin’ _die_ that way but no, this is another Grantaire, this is different, Grantaire is not hallucinating because _he isn’t,_ because it’s you who’s hallucinating this time.

Grantaire is dancing. He’s just dancing. You shouldn’t blame him. Nobody should blame him because Grantaire was born drunk and was born to dance, and he will fuckin’ _die_ dancing. Grantaire’s body was made of dance, his throat, oh his _throat_ is an oasis in the middle of an endless dry desert of the sort you want to curl against and suck, suck in all the sweat that’s glistening against the pulsating skin as he’s tilted his head back, exposing its slight curve, the hollow just above his collarbone and his bobbing Adam’s apple while he’s swallowing, oh how it’d be to swallow _you,_ to swallow all of you, it’s a fuckin’ oasis and you want to suck it dry, leave it with nothing but purple marks because you need to own him, to _possess_ him, every inch and every finger, long fingers clutching on her t-shirt, bitten fingernails with paint stains underneath, that never come off no matter how much you imagine him to scrub his hands underneath cold water, those fingers…

_Inside of you._

Or between you or around you but _on you,_ you don’t mind, you’re not picky, they’re just callused fingers, you shouldn’t be dreaming of sucking each and every one of them slowly, taking in the taste of the charcoal and the ash and the alcohol.

But you are. A lot.

Now. Here. You aren’t drunk. You’re just drunk _in him._ And then you tell yourself that you aren’t. Because you aren’t. That's right, you aren’t.

The disco lights are going on and off quickly, rhythmically and he’s going in and out of darkness, you can see him, now you can’t, you can, you _can,_ stop it, freeze the damn time because… you can’t. Now you can’t but now you can and it’s rhythmical and it matches your heartbeat, Grantaire is black and white and light and dark and he’s here and then he’s not and the beat is thumping inside your whole body.

His arms, wrapped around her slim waist, are covered in tattoos, colorful and fierce underneath the short sleeves of his shirt that clings on his chest and his hips are swaying like hers, he pushes her closer, against his crotch as they bend their waists back and it’s _sex,_ rhythmical, monotonous and filthy, it’s _stunning,_ you want to be Éponine, in her leather skirt and army boots.

No. You want to slide your hand underneath the waistband of his jeans. You want to curse and scream his name, you want to show him. Recite the poem that hasn’t yet been written, breathe the words that haven’t yet penetrated you, you don’t know it yourself but you need to show him.

In the alley outside the bar.

Wall. Against a wall.

In his skin. _On_ his skin. You need to press your lips against the hollow of his throat and speak to it, say what the air can’t handle to hear. You need his skin to muffle your words because even you aren't ready to hear them.

The beat is monotonous and psychedelic. Éponine’s hair is swishing in the air. You can’t breathe. You hate it. You hate yourself. You hate Éponine. You hate Grantaire. 

His eyes are blue. You can’t see now but you know, you can _always_ see, they’re in your head. Why are they blue, _why so blue_? You have asked before, your couch, your laptop, your fuckin’ ceiling but no one seems to be wanting to help you, nothing provides you with an answer.

They can. They’re blue.

*

**R.**

She’s laughing.

She’s laughing and she’s _beautiful,_ her lower lip is fuller than the upper one and they’re burgundy, they are blood and wine and some of her lipstick is smudged on her chin, her nose is not perfect, her eyes black and opaque and surrounded by dark circles and there’s that freckle on her left cheek and her hair is frizzy and tangled and flying around you in slow motion. That’s why she’s beautiful.

She appears and disappears rhythmically with the throbbing of the disco lights, dark and light, dark and light, and you hold her close and feel her body throbbing with her heartbeat, thin and bony and frail only she doesn’t let you think so, she doesn’t let you say it because then her fist is on your chin, not now, now it isn’t. Now you’re dancing and she’s sliding her hands across your chest and abdomen and she’s not frail, she never was. Now she’s happy. She’s laughing. You had missed her laughter, it’s piercing and hoarse and twisted and you can hear it even with music that loud. You can see every droplet of sweat on her olive skin and you laugh because she laughs, you dance and sway and jump together, the warmth of her skin against your own, you jump and every time you’re sure you’re going to fly and you grab each other’s hands because you want to be together when it happens, you don’t fly yet, only a little but it’s alright.

The song ends and she kisses you on the cheek. You love her, when you aren’t drunk you love her more but now you’re drunk and you still love her, like a sister, like a friend, like your whole left side, your left arm, your left eye, your left lung, she’s a part of you.

And he’s the right one.

Éponine leaves you because she loves someone else in a different way, someone else who taught her to live for love and only to die of it, someone who taught her to hold steadily and not be afraid of slipping off. She runs to him, laughing and his face lights up, no it’s not the disco lights because for this instant the disco lights have grown dark but you can still feel the light radiating from his face, Combeferre is beaming in absolute ecstasy behind his glasses, he’s wrapping his arms around her waist and she’s jumping on him, raising her legs in the air as he lifts her and they tatter around together, he’s not shy and dark and serious, not now because she taught her to live for loving, not to love for living. And he lives for loving. Everyone.

But her more.

They’re kissing, he’s cupped her face in his big hands and he’s looking excited like a teenage boy as they fall on the couch of the bar and she sits on his lap and they kiss, beaming against each other’s lips so much that Grantaire can hear their teeth clasping from meters away.

They are alone. They are in a crowded room but they’re alone and that’s how it should be. She sits on his lap facing him, chests pressed together as if they need to share every heartbeat to survive, her legs wrapped around his waist so tightly, her head buried on his shoulder and his head buried on her own.

They made mistakes. But they were born to be like that. To be different. To be blue and brown, Earth and Sky, to be slow and fast, soft and harsh, only to match like two pieces of a puzzle that never seem able to part after they’re glued together, and they stay like that in their own little world, a world that is huge and has all they need and the music goes on and on but they have the music of their heartbeats.

Éponine is your left side.

But Jehan is your right.

You love him. Yes you  _love him,_ Jehan is a cloud, he’s travelling faster than the Sun, he’s ignoring the Sun and shadows the light because he can, he shadows the light but they never want him to leave the sky, Jehan is travelling everywhere, nowhere and around _now,_ always, in a room full of people, in an empty Earth with a stellar mind. Jehan is a cloud and a flower, soft and gentle and beautiful, and Jehan is a thunderstorm, quiet and dark and destructive.

Jehan is laughing. He’s laughing poetry, he’s _breathing_ poetry. Jehan doesn’t always laugh and when he does it may be bitter, bitter and harsh like a punch in the guts but now Jehan is _laughing_ and he’s laughing love and friendship and warmth. He’s climbed on Bahorel’s shoulders and he’s barefoot, he’s wearing floral pants that are tight, so tight and his ankles and feet are bare and resemble those of a girl, he’s wearing a tie dye tank top with all the colors of the rainbow and his laughter is red and orange and yellow, warm and gentle but it tastes of blueberries and the love marks on his pale, transparent throat are purple, Bahorel laughs and lets him down and Jehan reaches for you and kisses you on the neck and it’s slow and loving and shows what you’ve been through together, that and nothing more, you love Jehan and Jehan loves you and Jehan is in love, he’s in love with Courfeyrac and you are happy as Courfeyrac wraps his arms around the small poet and turns him around, pressing a lazy kiss on his lips and sliding his fingers through unbraided, frizzy hair, and soon their shirts are off and they’re dancing a mantra, yes they’re _dancing_ it, it’s full of soul and birth and death and liberty. They’re beautiful, beautiful boys and they’re in love and the dance floor empties while  their naked, sweaty torsos meet and they press kisses and laughter against each other’s skin, more love bites, more love, they’re making love with a glance and they always will, because that was what they were born to do.

Joly and Bossuet are raising Musichetta in the air and she’s beaming widely, she’s the barwoman and everyone can go on and stare her luscious curves, dark skin and rich thighs, brown tendrils of hair that just lick her shoulder blades, everyone can go on and stare because Joly and Bossuet don’t mind to share, beauty is for everyone, that’s what makes unity, but no one else can touch, no one because she’s theirs and they’re her boys and they’re all drunk and when her feet touch the floor they hug in a bizarre cluster of arms and bodies and then Joly dances like a robot and Bossuet dances like Travolta and she laughs and you love them, you love them when the three of them get underneath her huge silver shawl making a tent or a shelter of their own where Joly will always be healthy and Bossuet will always be lucky and you can’t see but you know that underneath the fabric, Musichetta has her fingers wrapped around their wrists, holding them together.

Forever and a bit more.

Cosette is murmuring sweet incoherent nothings in Marius’ ear at the corner of the bar and one would say they don’t need them because they are the cliché, the rom-com couple, but they _need_ them, clichés are beautiful and that’s the reason they exist, Cosette was born to find Marius and drunk, now confused Marius was born to find Cosette, the universe seemed to be born and united for them to meet one day and kiss, the fireworks were invented for them, for authors to write about their _own_ kisses every time they dreamt of fireworks the other people didn’t believe that existed. And you love them. Every silly dance movement, every Disney flutter of their eyelashes, you love them.

And then there’s Feuilly and Bahorel, both hitting on the same brunette. Bahorel is loud and fierce and sexy and scary, especially when he decides to hug you in his grizzly bear manner and Feuilly hates him, you know that Feuilly hates every fuckin’ thing about Bahorel, Bahorel is a filthy neatherdal, a pretentious shithead, his Mohawk is _pretentious_ and the bruise on his forehead is _pretentious_ and his missing tooth and broken nose are so fuckin’ _pretentious_ and his crooked smile and his wide torso and firm biceps and the abs they can all count underneath his t-shirt, everything is pretentious and annoying as fuck.

Bahorel doesn’t hate Feuilly. He’s just amused. They smoke together. They always smoke together. They share every cigarette, hating each other even more with ever drag. Bahorel has caught him jerking off. To a poster of Brigitte Bardot. Then they jerked off together. To Brigitte Bardot.

Her tits are heaven. Her lips and teeth are hell.

Feuilly gives up on the brunette. He hates Bahorel. Bahorel is snogging the brunette, all tongue and teeth and hands. Feuilly smokes. And smokes again. A blonde walks up to him. She nibbles on his pale, freckled neck, then on the lobe of his ear. His eyes drift shut. That’s Feuilly. He orgasms mutedly, with a cigarette between his lips, the smoke twirling in a halo around his ginger head.

You are alone on the dance floor.

He’s there. Over there, alone too. He’s alone for once, no platonic husbands in sight, no hyperventilating Courfeyracs.

Enjolras is there.

You are drunk. You're always drunk, only now you want to cry. Now you want to die. Now you want to live. You love, and it hurts so fuckin’ much, so much that you forget he’s drunk.

You drink to forget you're in love but you're so in love that you forget you're drunk.

You can’t.

**e.**

Grantaire is drunk. Why is always Grantaire so drunk?

He’s staring at you and his eyes are blue like the disco lights.

Maybe his eyes are _the_ disco lights, maybe they’re radiating their blue light all around the room. Or maybe they’re sucking all the light of the room in them.

You hate him. You have always hated him. You never knew you could hate so much that it can hurt. Because it hurts and there’s no right or wrong when you hate, there’s no way back or forth, it’s just a thin cage where you can’t move or breathe. You hate cages. You are free.

Except when you aren't.

Maybe you love.

You hate to love.

It’s hot. The music is too monotonous, causing every fiber of your body to throb rhythmically. The hardness in your jeans is unbearable. You're suffocating.

It’s blue.

You're underwater. And you hate it.

*

**R.**

They’re dancing. He doesn’t know how, when or from where. He just knows that he’s drunk. So drunk to know he can’t be imagining things anymore.

They’re dancing.

He’s beautiful. So beautiful that it hurts, God _it hurts._

Why are you so beautiful, boy?

Grantaire is dreaming. He knows he’s dreaming. It’s the absinthe. He should be dreaming green, of barefoot fairies and forests and silk dresses.

But he’s dreaming of red. It’s the wine. Because it’s red.

Red and gold and white, pale marble skin and smooth red lips because Enjolras is a horrible dancer, but he’s a breathless one, his every movement is awkward yet Grantaire can breathe from the life he radiates, he’d follow him to his death so now he has the right for once to suck in the life.

He’s beautiful, God he’s so _beautiful._

He’s a God. With a halo. And a kingdom. The universe. The people. It all belongs to him.

Beauty. Life. Death. Freedom. He’s all.

But now he’s dancing. His eyelids are shut and golden curls are swishing around his head in slow motion and he’s a statue, a moving statue only he might not really be moving, it’s all slow, so slow that Grantaire’s heartbeat seems to have slowed too, his feet are jelly and his head is a sea, warm and calm until the storm that’s coming to make his heart pound like a cannon again and again, painfully against his ribcage, they’re dancing, everything is sharp on Enjolras’ marble face, a Greek nose, defined cheekbones, strong jaw, beautiful, long eyelashes, cherry lips, wet and slick and _beautiful._

He’s beautiful.

Grantaire touches him. He touches him with a wild, savage excitement. He knows he’s drunk but he needs to touch him only for now and then let him sleep there until he’ll die, he’ll need nothing else in his life or his death for he’ll have touched the God.

He’s warm. Soft. His skin is soft and warm and _real_ underneath Grantaire’s fingers, he can feel the pulse on his throat, he’s not a statue, he’s nothing, he’s unreal.

He’s everything.

In the corner of the bar they can see that Feuilly and Bahorel are dancing too. Aggressively. They’re furious. Maybe they’re fighting over the brunette. Maybe over Brigitte Bardot. But they’re fighting, dancing, wrestling, breathing heavily, covered in sweat, fists clenched, fingers enveloping muscles, veins pulsating on foreheads. Feuilly is smoking. They’re dancing like there’s no tomorrow, and it’s nothing but a fight.

He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Only when he does.

His lips are pressed against Enjolras’ pulse point, hearing him (feeling him) moan quietly. Enjolras hates him. Enjolras is furious. Grantaire shouldn’t. But Grantaire is tasting sweat on sticky skin, it’s warm and soft and he’s biting softly.

Feuilly and Bahorel both have now their teeth wrapped around the same cigarette. Their lips clasp. They’re kissing. Fingers clutching on shirts, hands pulling on hair, mouths open widely and tongues trace over jaws and mouths and lips and the cigarette falls, it’s savage and wild and fierce and they can taste the swearing against each other’s mouth, Feuilly works all day and educates himself in the night to survive, Bahorel doesn’t even attend University, _I hate you, I hate you,_ they’re kissing and they fight. That’s how they fight. Throwing their arms around each other. Pressing their bodies together. Smiling softly and baring a broken tooth as their foreheads come to rest together.

Enjolras pulls away.

Grantaire is smiling. Snarkily. Or tenderly.

Enjolras hates him and Grantaire loves him for that.

**e.**

“You’re drunk. R! _R,_ don’t you dare fall asleep on me.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“You reek of whiskey and tequila and… fuck you. Fuck you R. If you puke in 'Ferre's car I’ll make you lick it clean. And kill you.”

“You’re _beautiful._ ”

“You’re disgusting. Come, to the car.”

Grantaire chuckles drunkenly, leaning against Enjolras’ shoulder as the man throws an arm around his waist and tries to carry him outside of the bar.

The cold air hit their faces. They can hear the reaching and diverging sounds of the cars on the road. They tatter towards Combeferre’s car.

“I must get you home.”

“Apollo…”

“Don’t _call_ me that, for fuck’s sake!”

Grantaire chuckles again as Enjolras shoves him on the back seat and slams the door on his face. He walks to the driver’s seat, his blood pounding in his meninges.

“Fasten your seatbelt.”

“Can’t,” murmurs Grantaire and Enjolras curses as he stretches his body over the front seat, turned around in order to pull the seatbelt over Grantaire’s body. He’s sprawled upon the back seat and his t-shirt is slightly raised, exposing dark curls trailing on his flat abdomen, starting from his navel and leading south, two hipbones peeking mischievously and Enjolras is frustrated, he’s so fuckin’ _confused_ as he fastens his own seatbelt and starts the car.

“You’re beautiful,” murmurs Grantaire. “God, _look at you._ ” Enjolras feels uncomfortable. His cheeks are burning as he takes a glimpse of himself on the mirror of the car. “So fuckin’ beautiful. It hurts Apollo, _it hurts_. Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

“’m always drunk.”

“I know.”

“And you’re always beautiful.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the road. The only sound he can hear is the cars that cross the tunnel and Grantaire’s heavy breathing from the back seat. He opens the window wider so that cold air can enter the car and it should help but it doesn’t.

“There’s a problem,” mutters Grantaire.

“Of course there is. You’re drunk.”

“No. No that’s not the problem.”

Enjolras sighs.

“You're in a car with a beautiful boy,” murmurs Grantaire, “and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.” Enjolras tries to swallow a lump down his throat but he can’t. “And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired.”

Enjolras’ heart is pounding madly against his ribcage. Grantaire is curled on the backseat and he sneakily stares at him through the mirror, he’s a bundle with a shock of black curls, scruffy cheeks and a crooked nose, and he’s so near he can hear his breathing, if he was a little nearer he could hear his heartbeat.

His heartbeat. Crazy. Drunk. Steady. Strong. Soothing.

_You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for…_

He parks the car and pulls the brake. “Here we are.”

“Apollo?”

Enjolras gets out of the car and opens the back door, bending a little inside in order to unfasten Grantaire’s seatbelt. “Yes, R?” he answers impatiently.

“How can you be so beautiful? Why do you hurt me so? My heart hurts, Enjolras.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“I am.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m me.”

“You’re a God.”

“I’m human.”

Silence falls. “You’re beautiful.” It’s only a breath, quieter than a whisper, only it echoes in Enjolras’ head like cannonballs.

Enjolras gets inside the car, on the backseat. “I’m in a car,” he breathes, as they gaze at each other, so close but never touching. “With a beautiful boy. _Beautiful_ , beautiful boy.” His hand clutches around Grantaire's jacket, feeling the loud thud of his heart beneath his touch. “And I’m trying to tell him that I love him.” He slowly uncurls his fingers, releasing the fabric and backs away from Grantaire, Grantaire who’s holding his breath, Grantaire whose eyes are so fuckin’ blue, Grantaire who’s beautiful, Grantaire who suddenly seems terrified in the most sober of ways.

It’s Grantaire. The same Grantaire. Always the same.

Enjolras is the same too. He never changed. So he says what he doesn't mean to with his eyes. Grantaire knows. He opens the door and climbs off the car, tattering to the door of his building.

Enjolras’ voice comes out deep, throaty, hoarse as he watches the other man disappear. Grantaire has heard nothing, nor will he remember a word in the morning. It's no louder than a breath, only a breath. “And _God,_ how I love him…”


End file.
